


(you know) you're not safe here

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one upside to Grant's imprisonment is that his sleep is, for the most part, uninterrupted. There are no last-minute calls to action, no middle-of-the-night turbulence, no waking at every creak of an unoiled hinge. His cell is quiet and isolated, cut off from the rest of whatever base he’s being held at; there’s nothing to disturb him as he sleeps.</p><p>Usually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(you know) you're not safe here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).



> This pathetic offering is a Christmas gift for the lovely and amazing JD. It is a totally lame gift, considering how SPECTACULAR the gift!fic she wrote me was, but let's be honest, I never had any hope of matching that. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant spends a lot of time sleeping, these days.

It’s about half strategy—spending the days listless and dozing lends more credence to his ‘broken’ act than working out and pacing does—and half sheer boredom. He knew when he decided on the suicide play that he’d be sacrificing his creature comforts to it, and he thought he was prepared—after all, how much of his life has he spent crammed in some sniper’s nest or another, with nothing but his mind and his target?—but it’s turned out to be even worse than he was expecting.

He’s playing the long game here, and it’s looking really damn long with nothing to entertain him but three newly-padded walls and an invisible barrier that leaves freedom close enough to touch.

Of course, Coulson comes down to question him on a regular basis, but Grant can’t engage with him, no matter how starved he is for conversation. The only way this works—the only way he gets out of here—is through Skye. She’s the only member of the team who’s a soft enough touch to fall into the trap of sympathizing with him.

It’ll take a while, he knows—months, if not years—but they’ve got a lot in common, him and Skye. Unwanted children who found family as adults, desperate for the approval of their chosen fathers, trying to be happy with what they have while a tiny voice inside still whispers questions about their _real_ families and why they weren’t good enough…

He can understand her in a way the rest of the team never will. There’s enough common ground there to escape from the bumps his betrayal put in the road. It’ll just take time—and he’s got nothing but it.

So he ignores Coulson except to reiterate that he’ll only talk to Skye. He works out three times a day, wears his mind smooth through exertion and eases the coiled tension his tiny cell puts in his spine.

And he sleeps.

A lot.

The one upside to the whole thing is that his sleep is, for the most part, uninterrupted. There are no last-minute calls to action, no middle-of-the-night turbulence, no waking at every creak of an unoiled hinge. His cell is quiet and isolated, cut off from the rest of whatever base he’s being held at; there’s nothing to disturb him as he sleeps.

Until one afternoon, four months into his imprisonment, when he’s startled into consciousness by a distant, muffled _boom_.

His instincts haven’t been dulled by his time here: he’s fully awake in the span of a single heartbeat and on his feet just as fast.

At that point, though, he falters. That was definitely an explosion—and one way, way too close for comfort—but there’s not much he can do from his cell. In fact, there’s _nothing_.

There are alarms blaring in the base upstairs. Only the faintest echoes reach him, but it’s enough to know that whatever’s happening wasn’t intentional.

It might just be a one-off: an experiment or trial run gone wrong in the lab, a mishandled piece of equipment—

But then another explosion follows, effectively putting paid to those hopes.

His restless energy—the drive to _do_ something, to evaluate, to kill or protect or defend as necessary, that was hammered into him during his time as a specialist—manifests itself as pacing. He stalks back and forth along the line of the barrier, focusing on counting his steps and keeping his heartbeat steady.

It’s not easy.

The explosions are either getting closer or increasing in force. Either way, they’re louder, and it’s driving him crazy.

He’s on step six hundred and forty-seven when the door at the top of the stairs slams open.

It’s Simmons. She’s not who he was expecting—the only visitors he’s had since being thrown in here are Coulson and, once, May—but she’s a hell of a lot better than no one.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

“We’re being attacked,” she says, almost absently, as she makes her careful way down the steps. There’s no railing, but she’s sticking close to the wall, one hand pressed firmly against it as she takes the steps slowly. For a second, he’s confused by it, but when she turns at the landing, he sees the blood staining her left temple and the bruise blooming across her cheek. She’s been hit, and _hard_ ; she’s probably feeling unsteady. “The base is under siege.”

No kidding.

“HYDRA?” he asks, not sure how to feel about the prospect.

It would be beyond stupid to _trust_ HYDRA, but he’s got enough friends there to be pretty sure they won’t kill him on sight. If HYDRA finds him down here, chances are he’ll be released—and just the _thought_ of freedom is enough to undo all the work he’s done calming himself down since he woke.

On the other hand, though, if HYDRA makes it all the way down to this hole he’s been thrown in, chances are it’ll come at the cost of his team’s lives. He doesn’t want that.

So it’s with mixed feelings he observes Simmons’ shake of the head. She comes to a stop beside the chair outside his cell and breathes in, deep and slow.

“The Air Force,” she says. “Coulson’s made an enemy of a particular general; he’s been hunting us for months.”

Air Force…that rings a bell.

“Talbot,” Grant remembers. “The one who chased you guys out of the Hub, right?”

She stares at him for a long second—possibly annoyed by the reminder that once upon a time, he was very much in the loop, possibly just remembering what _else_ happened at the Hub—and then huffs an unamused laugh.

“Precisely,” she says. “And the grudge he’s holding over that has grown to frightening proportions over the last few—”

She’s interrupted by yet another explosion, and this one is _definitely_ closer—close enough to shake the ground beneath them. Simmons’ grip on the back of the chair goes white-knuckled, and she hunches in on herself as dust falls from the ceiling.

It’s only when the barrier snaps out at Grant that he realizes he’s started moving to protect her.

“—weeks,” she finishes, a little faintly, as the last echoes of the explosion fade.

“No kidding,” Grant says, forcing himself to relax.

His heart is pounding in his chest, muscles tensing; with the enemy so clearly identified, he’s itching with the urge to take action. The dried blood on Simmons’ temple, caked around a nasty cut that’s almost _definitely_ gonna scar, only eggs him on.

And speaking of that blood…

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, crossing his arms, “I appreciate the answers. But shouldn’t you be evacuating with the rest of the non-combatants?”

Unless there’s some kind of very well hidden emergency exit down here—not out of the question; SHIELD does love its secrets—it doesn’t make a lot of sense for her to be visiting him right now.

She shakes her head. “There’s no way out.”

Her tone is a hell of a lot less dramatic than her words would suggest; she sounds more resigned than anything. He raises his eyebrows in question.

“We’re cornered,” she says. The hand not clutching the chair twitches at her side in some aborted motion. “The Bus is too obvious; we still haven’t managed to give it cloaking—it would be seen and shot down the moment it took off. They’ve blocked off all the roads, thereby rendering our vehicles useless. And there’s a sort of forcefield around the base which, though the only reason we haven’t been bombed into oblivion, makes it impossible to leave on foot.”

That…implies a hell of a lot of knowledge about this base on the enemy’s part.

“Sounds like Talbot planned this well,” he says, letting his tone ask his question for him.

Simmons smiles tightly.

“We were betrayed,” she says. “Again.”

Oh, that’s gotta hurt. “Ouch.”

“Quite,” she agrees.

One of these days, Coulson is gonna _have_ to learn caution—but this probably isn’t the time to bring that up. Actually, there really isn’t a good time to bring it up at all, not without ruining the play he’s making. He needs to keep his sense of humor locked down for as long as it takes to get out of this cell.

So he bites back all the smart comments that come to mind, and instead focuses on the issue at hand.

“So,” he says. “The base is under siege, the enemy’s closing in, and you’ve got no way out.” He pauses, letting the summation sink in, just to underline his point. “Exactly what are you doing down here?”

After four months of radio silence, it’s not likely she’s chosen _now_ as the best moment to drop in for a chat with the traitor. (Unless the fact of the _new_ traitor has lessened her anger at him, the old one—wouldn’t that be nice.)

In response, Simmons swallows. Her eyes fall away, and he follows her gaze to the tablet that controls his cell.

“Something stupid,” she whispers, more to herself than to him, and hope sparks in his chest.

If she’s down here to let him out…

“Simmons,” he starts.

“There’s been no end of discussion amongst the team,” she says over him, “regarding your cover and what truth may or may not have been in it. Obviously the kind, moral, and ultimately good-hearted man was a lie, but it didn’t escape anyone’s attention that for all of the countless people you killed, we all escaped you alive—if not unscathed.” She drags in a breath and lifts her eyes back to his. “So it’s a matter of some debate whether you might actually care about us.”

This is his chance. He can see it, clear as day: the right words will get him out of this cell, months ahead of schedule. Whatever the situation upstairs, he’s confident in his ability to fight his way past it.

This is the best shot at freedom he’s ever gonna get.

He wets his lips, studying Simmons. Beneath the reddening bruise on her cheek, she’s almost worryingly pale, and there are hints of dark circles under her eyes. She’s plainly exhausted—and there’s a shadow to her eyes that makes him think this ‘siege’ might not be the worst thing that’s happened to her, lately. And whether that’s true or not, there’s no doubt she’s desperate, if she’s reached the point of letting him out.

But her jaw is set and her back straight; despite her exhaustion and whatever else might be weighing on her, she’s bearing up. She’s determined.

…She’s also not stupid.

Letting him out is a risk, she’s gotta know that. No matter how broken he’s playing, he’s still a specialist, and she has first-hand experience with just how lethal he can be. The base is already under attack; if she drops the barrier, she runs the risk of multiplying the problem. He might decide to get revenge, cross off the team while they’re distracted by Talbot.

He _won’t_ , but she has no way of knowing that.

He needs to tread carefully. This isn’t the time for feigned remorse or puppy dog eyes.

“I do care,” he says evenly. “About all of you. I won’t deny that I played the whole team. But we were a family, and _that_ was real. The guy I was on the Bus—he was a lie. What we shared wasn’t.”

He puts a very subtle stress on the word _shared_. Nothing overt, nothing major—just a tiny little inflection meant to remind Simmons that the two of them shared more than most…an inflection that obviously works, as she flinches under it.

She trusted him enough to fuck him, to turn to him for comfort after her entire world fell apart. And he _did_ comfort her—not just physically, but emotionally. He let his cover slip enough to soothe her tears and offer reassurance, steady and sure where his cover would’ve been an awkward mess.

He loves Skye, but he cares about Simmons, too. They have a connection; he can use that.

“If you let me out, I’ll defend the team,” he says. “Just like I always have.” He searches her face, alert for any hint of her thoughts, but she keeps it impressively blank. “Do you believe me?”

Her lip trembles, and she turns away, finally releasing the chair in favor of running both hands through her hair. They fist briefly at the back of her neck, then fall away, and she crosses her arms over her stomach.

“I don’t know.”

“Simmons,” he starts, and then reconsiders. “ _Jemma_.”

She jolts like she’s been stung. He knows she had a crush on him, before, and at least a little of it must’ve stuck around past his betrayal. It’s all to the good; he needs all the advantages he can get, right now.

Before he can push that advantage, though, there’s yet another explosion. This time, the ground shakes so badly that they both stumble, and enough dust falls from the ceiling that Grant’s honestly afraid for a second that it’s gonna cave in.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Simmons mutters, and turns back to snatch the tablet off of its stand. “It’s a moot point anyway. Whether you’ll protect us or not, even _you_ don’t deserve to die cornered in a cell.”

She’s tapping at the tablet as she speaks, and on the last word, the barrier shines once and then falls away. Heart in his throat, he stretches out a cautious hand—and reaches right past the line.

It’s gone.

He’s _free_.

Simmons takes a deep breath and drops the tablet back onto its stand. She’s shaking, a little, but her voice is even.

“Talbot’s men will kill you if they catch you,” she advises him, and then turns to leave.

One quick step and he’s across the line, out of his cell for the first time in months. Three more steps and he’s even with her, catching her arm to spin her to face him, and six more steps have her backed against the wall.

That was way too easy, and he wants answers.

Simmons is still, wide eyed and tense under his hands. But she’s also warm—soft—the first physical contact he’s had in _months_ …although that’s not really true, is it? He’s got scars on both his wrists that prove that _someone_ —probably her—touched him, stitched him up and saved his life after his very risky plays at suicide.

Maybe that’s the reason.

“Ward,” she says, voice pitched low and soothing, like he’s some dangerous animal that’s slipped its leash. “What are you doing?”

She’s a study in contradictions. Even while she’s meeting his eyes calmly, trying to talk him down, she’s cowering back against the wall—keeping as much space between them as possible.

“That was too easy.” He runs his hands down her arms, dissatisfied by the cotton beneath his palms. Her sleeves only reach to just past her elbows; he grips her forearms—gently—and smiles to himself at the way it makes her breath catch. “After everything I did, you only hesitate for half a second before dropping the barrier?”

She rolls her eyes. “You might have noticed, things are a little desperate—”

“No. That’s not it.”

He didn’t _convince_ her to let him out. She was already resolved to do it when she came down here, and that just doesn’t make sense. The base being under attack isn’t enough to justify freeing Grant without being absolutely positive he’s not a threat.

If he wanted to, he could make this situation a million times worse. There’s no way she doesn’t know that.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he accuses. “And we’re not going anywhere until you do.”

“This is hardly the time—or the _place_ —for quibbling,” Simmons snaps. “If you want to discuss my motives, I’ll be happy to do so as soon as the Playground isn’t under siege!”

As if to punctuate her point, the base shakes with another explosion. Grant, on pure reflex, starts to cover Simmons…and it’s a good thing it’s not necessary, because as soon as he tugs her up against him (intending to shove her to the ground), he freezes. They _both_ do.

In the days leading up to his betrayal, Grant spent a lot of time holding Simmons. He got to know her body, had his fun making her whimper and writhe, and learned the way they fit together. Locked alone in a basement with no way to entertain himself, he’s revisited those memories hundreds of times, and he remembers every second with perfect clarity.

So he _knows_ something’s changed.

The last echoes of the most recent explosion die out, leaving the basement silent save for Simmons’ ragged breathing—and his own heart, pounding in his ears.

“Simmons,” he says, slowly.

“This isn’t the time,” she reiterates weakly.

Gently—very, very gently—he moves her back, putting a little space between them. Without waiting for permission (since he’s pretty sure he’d never get it), he pushes her shirt up, and—

Yeah. That’s…definitely a baby bump. A small one, but…yeah.

Lightheaded, he lets her shirt fall—but, as the urge to flee is stamped across her face, doesn’t let go of her. Luckily, she doesn’t try to get away; she suddenly seems impossibly delicate, and he doesn’t think he’d dare stop her.

“You’re—”

“Pregnant,” she completes, quietly. “Yes.”

His head is spinning worse than it did after taking a header into the cell’s (formerly) concrete wall. Torture, blood loss, starvation—nothing has ever left him this disoriented.

“Is it—?” He can’t seem to finish the question.

He doesn’t know a lot about pregnancy—not a damn thing, really—so he has no hope of guessing how far along she might be. What he _does_ know is that he was the only person she had sex with during their time on the Bus. There’s no telling what she’s been up to since he’s been locked in his cage, but…

After an unbearably long minute of hesitation, she nods.

“I let you out,” she says, voice shaking, “because one day this child is going to ask about his or her father. I don’t want to have to say that I left him to die.”

That word— _father_ —hits him harder than any punch ever has. It knocks the breath right out of his lungs.

She’s—and he’s—

—and the United States military is _blowing things up_ upstairs.

“I’ll protect you,” he promises, and gathers her close for a hug. She’s trembling, but that’s no surprise. “You’re safe with me—both of you are.”

“Talbot is insane,” she says into his shoulder, and he rubs her back soothingly. He’s gonna take it as a good sign that she’s saying Talbot and not him. “HYDRA killed his wife and son and managed to pin it on us.”

“Christ,” he mutters. No mercy from that corner, then—and he knows exactly how SHIELD feels about him, so while they’ll happily protect Simmons, there’s no way he gets to stay by her side.

And HYDRA? From what little intel he managed to gather before getting locked up, Daniel Whitehall’s in charge these days—and Whitehall’s old-school, a full-on Nazi crackpot. If he’s into the eugenics shit…

Grant doesn’t even wanna _think_ about how happy HYDRA would be to get its crazy hands on a kid with Simmons’ genius DNA.

Looks like it’s up to him, then.

He’s got boltholes all over the world, people who owe him favors on every continent. He can keep her—keep their _child_ —safe.

After taking a few deep, uneven breaths, Simmons pushes him away. She looks like she’s fighting back tears, but her face is still full of that same determination. She might be tiny—fragile, even—but she’s never been a pushover. He’s gonna need to keep that in mind.

“This isn’t the time,” she says, yet again, and she’s right. “The base isn’t safe.”

“No,” he agrees. He catches her hand and tugs her towards the stairs, mind racing with plans. “I’ll get you out.”

“There’s no way—”

“I’ll _find_ a way,” he swears. “No one’s gonna touch you, Jemma. I promise.”

She and his kid are getting out of this base alive—even if he has to kill every fucking person on it to make it happen.


End file.
